#Absolution brings up some questions as it confirms the construct of a soul does exist

[exhausted-archivist]

No, you have it right! I do think the old god soul is a misnomer, as in they aren't technically a soul because they were originally spirits. But I think, to work with the fact Wardens die when they're forced to take on the archdemon there is a sort of middle ground. But I'll circle back to that because to explain that I should explain the theory about the origins of elves and answer Cole and Justice. This is going to be really long, so I will put it under a cut, sorry.

To start off with, I think souls can be formed because there is a suggestion in Trespasser through murals, codices, and lines from Cole that suggest elves didn't start off as mortal. By that I mean they didn't even have bodies. The lore suggests that elves were not originally part of Thedas in terms of "reality". Cole says:

"They made bodies from the earth, and the earth was afraid. It fought back, but they made it forget."

"Bodies from the earth" could mean dirt or the common understanding that it was lyrium. Because why would Titans, also referred to as the pillars of the earth, be afraid if the elves made bodies out of dirt?

So, if the elves were originally spirits, and Solas refers to Mythal and the Evanuris "the oldest of my people don't die so easily", then the original elves include Mythal and they were spirits. But Mythal is now a soul that cannot be forced upon the unwilling (Morrigan). This suggests that souls can be developed after certain milestones. Or at the very least a spirit can develop soul like qualities.

Which brings us to Justice and Cole.

To start off with, I don't think Cole and Justice are the same. One reason is because Justice still needs to possess a body to stay out of the Fade. But, I do think he was on his way to developing a soul prior to merging with Anders. Justice had reached a level in Awakening where he, like Cole, was learning about the moral grey areas of the mortal world. How easily the tenants he represented could lean into the opposite extreme. But by merging with Anders, he interrupted his journey into a mortal. However, I don't think it is Anders fault that Justice couldn't complete that transition, to be clear. Even before the merge, Justice was leaning very heavily into Vengeance. Just like how Cole teetered between the two extremes of compassion. Unlike Cole however, Justice never got to make the full journey of learning the middle ground between those two extremes and therefore didn't get to become the complex and nuanced being that Cole becomes. I also don't think he could.

For two reasons:

Justice wasn't summoned out of the Fade, he didn't choose to leave he was forced out. He didn't have the power, will, or desire to leave the Fade to begin with and thus didn't have the power to make his own shape to operate in the mortal realm. It was later that he chose to stay because he felt that he had to stay and correct the injustices of the world. He was already in the beginning stages of becoming Vengeance even before he was forced out of the Fade in the Black Marsh.

Spirits don't have nuance. Not in the way that is needed for them to reach that middle ground milestone they need at least; if they teeter too far, if they go against their purpose too much they morph into the opposite. Justice become Vengeance. Wisdom become Pride, ect.

If we look at Cole, he manifested his own body, built his own mortal shape to interact with the real world after he was summoned across the veil by the original Cole. He isn't actually possessing a body. The only other being we know who has done this are archdemons and - in theory, the original elves who "made bodies from the earth". Arguably also Imshael but that is more of a detail we can't confirm, we don't really know if he is possessing someone or not. But I wanted to include him for completeness, however, for simplicity we're just going to focus on Cole and archdemons. Trying to keep this as simple as we can lol.

So Cole, stayed in the real world for an undetermined amount of time before Inquisition at 9:41, though we know it was at least 10 years. Through this time he eventually became a demon with the more mercy kills he performed. Because his "mercy" wasn't by the choice of those he killed. We don't have an exact name or term for what he would be called but he and others do refer to him as a demon. However, he does eventually learn that what he was doing wasn't compassion and was wrong. To which he then works his way back to being just a spirit and this is the state we meet him in Inquisition.

When we meet him, he is arguably in a state the Chantry would call a spirit, but because he is outside the Fade and is killing people he also counts as a demon. Cole is in this position of nuance that not only the Chantry doesn't acknowledge, or the canon allow, but technically neither does Cole's nature. Envy doesn't even acknowledge Cole as a spirit or a fellow demon; instead he calls Cole, thing. He's an oddity even to his own kind.

Through Inquisition, while Cole is in this undefined middle ground he still has all his spirit abilities, and he will retain them and return to the Fade... Unless you make him choose to be human. Then, he loses a lot of his spirit abilities; he can no longer make people forget him, he can't pass unnoticed, he can't undo mistakes when he's trying to heal them. I think it is at this point he begins developing a soul or at the very least the point where he cements himself to the constraints similar to that of Mythal, Solas, and other ancient elves. He is now in some degree mortal, he has reached the point of no return. He can't become a spirit again, the Fade is no longer the realm he belongs. So, by the time two years have passed and Trespasser happens in 9:44, he is more human than he was in 9:42. As time goes on, he seems to become even more human, and thus begs the question of what makes a mortal... mortal?

This brings us back to how is he different from the Old Gods? Well, the Old Gods, as far as we know, never reached that middling state or at the very least were never faced with that defining choice.

Keeping with Chantry canon, they were supposedly summoned by humanity, and they chose to take the forms of dragons. Like how Cole was summoned and took the form of a young man. However, as Cole wasn't truly human, Old Gods aren't truly dragons. They speak to the Neromenians who eventually become Tevinter in the Fade, teaching their dreamers blood magic and a myriad of other things. The Old Gods still entirely operate in the Fade and continue to do so up until the Magisters breach the Fade and the Maker supposedly locked them away.

However, we know the Chantry canon is likely wrong in how the Old Gods came to not only be in Thedas but also how they were imprisoned. The Old Gods have likely been imprisoned longer than humans have been since before there were thaigs as they are buried under/around thaigs. They have ancient magic imprisoning them, magic that outlasts long after they've been freed and tainted.

But the Old Gods also aren't completely spirits, as spirits cannot be corrupted from the Blight. After all they have no body to be corrupted. And even if the Old Gods were possessing a high dragon, there is a possibility that body wouldn't be able to become corrupted. Aside from a high dragon's resistance to the taint, Gaider even suggests that it is a possible scenario that Justice cures - or prevents the advancement of - the taint in Anders.

But if they were in a middling state like Cole was, not quite spirit as they had a corporal body, but also not quite mortal as they still had ties to Fade. Then they'd arguably be in a state where they could be a soul but are also arguably not a soul. Thus restricting them to the rules of not being able to be forced upon someone as well as potentially leaving them open to be corrupted. Or the magic that imprisons them does.

So that is sort of one of the thoughts the lore lead me to. However, yeah, the concept of a "soul" or being "real" as a quantifier of personhood is very sticky. But I don't think it is a concept they should shy away from nor is it one that I think they will.

They have been repeatedly asking that, have hallmarks of it everywhere. After all, a reference point for their concept of the point in history Thedas is hanging at is "a strange moment -- like an Enlightenment-era Europe". We see things constantly questioning one's personhood. From how the ancient elves saw dwarves tied to the Titan hive mind as "witless, soulless. This death will be a mercy." How Solas doesn't see modern elves (or races in general) as people when he first wakes up, but he sees spirits as people. Inquisition uses "savage" and "barbarian" in such high frequency as a way to diminish an individual or group's personhood or validity to it. BioWare has provoked the question before in Mass Effect, didn't explore it too deeply but did invoke the queary what makes a person a person. They have Legion, a geth, ask "does this unit have a soul?". Which for Dragon Age, spirits and demons fill a similar role to ai in Mass Effect.

But even more to the point of how sticky the concept of how "developed" you are in morals or identity being a completely subjective is really shaky grounds, especially if you don't approach it lightly like with the geth but also don't invest enough time into such a concept... You get stories like Cole.

Because Cole absolutely provokes that question. In Inquisition, if you make him more human he will refer to himself as a demon to multiple people. But when it comes to Trespasser, when he is with Maryden he will declare the fact that he is human.

Which is part of my issue with Cole's story and personal quest. It doesn't go deep enough, doesn't spend enough time with the question they are asking. And, when you look at it, he isn't truly seen as a person to the companions - save for Solas and Varric - unless you make him more human. Prior to that you have Iron Bull trying to sort out how to use his abilities as a tool and then eventually tries to make him "fit in", Blackwall finds him weird and keeps his distance, Sera and Vivienne hate him and refer to him as demon, Cassandra doesn't trust him and at best becomes neutral to him, Dorian sees him as a curiosity.

Once you make him human Blackwall and others joke about how he'll be a real man once he discovers his interest in women. Sera still finds him creepy and calls him "just a wrong thing" though that animosity seems to lessen slightly come Trespasser.

BioWare has been asking what makes one a person in Thedas for awhile now. And I think it would be more shaky for them not to fully explore it now that they've built not one but four instance of where that question is being asked.

The ancient elves, possibly being spirits originally and making themselves real by crafting bodies from the earth.

Dwarves when they are part of the hive mind, becoming seen as people once they were freed.

Solas referring to spirits as people, but the rest of modern Thedas not seeing them as people.

Cole.

i wonder, is there any source or consensus in the community whether kieran still has his own soul after flemeth takes urthemiel's one? or he only had urthemiel's one?

like, according to the chantry, spirits and demons don't have souls, and despite that say cole or justice obviously are people, so i don't think that having or not having a soul makes that much of a difference, at least as it is like now. and what a soul is anyway? but i was wondering if it was ever addressed and i can't find anything about it rn.

but also there obviously can be multiple souls in one body, first example being flemeth-mythal-urthemiel(-solas??), so i guess it's just the archdemon-to-warden thing destroys both souls and other methods don't. or they're going to also retcon this one as something that the warden believed is the reason, but really it's something else, they just got lucky that it stops the blight.

i can't find any answers, does anyone have any sources about this?

[artificialqueens]

game of survival, chapter six (branjie) - holtzmanns

AN: rating change with this chapter. Eternally grateful to @writworm42 and @beanierose for being so wonderful and encouraging and for beta-ing. I appreciate you both so much.

Brooke sets up a makeshift board on one of the wooden walls in the living room of the cabin, spreading out a timeline of the past few weeks along with information about everyone involved. She finds a ball of yarn from the summer that Nina was determined to learn how to knit in one of the bedroom closets and uses it to join the different players together, to work through various hypotheses in her mind.

It helps her, the methodical process. It calms her down and lets her organize her thoughts, to sort out exactly what has happened. To figure out where they can go from here.

Vanessa watches from her spot on the couch, where she’s curled up under a blanket with a mug of tea in her hands. The sleeves of the oversized sweater that she found in one of the closets (‘It smells like detergent, it’s clean, imma take it’) are rolled up to fit her small frame.

Her eyes are wide as she listens to Brooke’s explanations as she puts everything up on the wall, telling her about the past few weeks from her perspective. Brooke can’t help the question that falls from her lips next, can’t hold back when she sees the way that Vanessa swallows as she explains how close she came to death by her hand.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Vanessa’s answer comes after a long sip of tea, and a gaze that takes Brooke in, doesn’t waver.

“No.”

Brooke expected the answer. She likes it. Even though it means Vanessa clearly has no concern for her own personal safety. “Maybe you should be.”

“Chica, if you’d have wanted to kill me by now, you would have done so already.” Vanessa raises an eyebrow, a challenge.

Brooke doesn’t want to tell Vanessa that she’s completely right.

She doesn’t get these political types, sometimes. The way that they seem to be self-assured to the point of absolute insanity. The way that they refuse to back down on their opinions if they believe in them hard enough.

Vanessa looks at her like she’s a puzzle that she wants to solve, like she’s determined to unravel her no matter the cost to her own self. Brooke isn’t sure whether she wants to save her from the edge of the cliff that she’s near or join her in going over the brink.

It’s refreshing, finding someone who wants to step up to her level. Doesn’t happen much in her line of work. Brooke hasn’t experienced anything like Vanessa before. She’s no longer her prey; she’s challenging her and pushing her in ways that she’s never experienced.

If Brooke were to let go of the iron grip that she has on her own brain, the way that she forces herself to only think about ways that they can survive and get through this unscathed, she knows that she would spiral. About her own abilities, about how Vanessa has completely dismantled the dangerous yet efficient life that she’s crafted for herself. How Vanessa seems to know it too.

Instead, she turns back to the board.

Brooke scrawls the name of a prominent Republican congressman and sticks it beside her own on the wall. She turns toward Vanessa, whose furrowed brow tells her exactly what she thinks of the man.

“He hired me.” Brooke doesn’t know how to handle the current uncharted territory, with all the shit that has happened. She may as well be transparent at this point.

Vanessa’s lips are pursed as she stands up, comes up beside Brooke. Looks at the name, then up at her. “Somehow, not surprised.”

Unexpected. Brooke raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I caused a stir about that bill he was lobbying to pass last month. Also called him a ‘shitstain on this earth’ to his face when it got passed.” Vanessa tries to hold back a smile at the memory.

“Jesus.” Brooke shakes her head. She can picture Vanessa barely coming up to the man’s shoulder, yelling in his face louder than anyone has ever dared to at a while male politician. “You’re fiery, aren’t you?”

“It helped that someone was filming it and it went viral on Twitter. The support for him dropped ridiculously fast, while I gained some points in the prediction polls.” Vanessa’s public voice, her politician voice shines through for the first time since Brooke ran into her when they met, when she saved her from the explosion of her office. When Vanessa didn’t know who she was and thought she was a random member of the public.

Vanessa is good at pulling out her charming, public persona. At gaining the hearts of the adoring population that doesn’t turn their backs on her when she occasionally slips up and explodes at those who cross her.

Brooke thinks back to watching the news when it had happened, before she had even met her. How the newscasters said that Vanessa was truly for the people. How it had only made her more loved by the general public.

“Weren’t you worried that crossing him would come back to bite you?” Brooke asks her because she wonders. She’s so used to calculating each of her actions, weighing the risks and benefits and taking a step forward only after confirming that she’s making the best choice.

Vanessa shrugs. “He always steamrolls anyone in his way. He wasn’t used to someone stepping in his face for once. No one ever fuckin’ does. I had to.”

Vanessa is Brooke’s antithesis; a woman so driven by her heart and what she feels is the right choice not only for herself, but for everyone else as well. For those who could be hurt by policies that they have no ability to change. Ones that Vanessa fights because she has the ability to do so, no matter the cost.

Even though the cost was almost that of her life.

Brooke envies it, the way that Vanessa is so sure in her beliefs. The way she’s tried, really tried, to use it for good in her career. Brooke can’t say that she’s done the same.

“He nearly killed you for it.” A man so threatened by a woman questioning his authority that his solution was to take out Vanessa, and get rid of the challenger in his way.

“No bitch, you nearly killed me.” Vanessa scoffs, scoffs at her.

Well. It’s not like she can deny it. “Fair enough.”

“Let me ask you something. Again. Why haven’t you?” Vanessa’s gaze is striking, staring into her soul. Searching for an answer that Brooke doesn’t feel she even knows herself.

Brooke turns back to the board, away from Vanessa, though it does nothing to stop the unsaid pleading that she can feel coming from her.

“You had so many chances.” Vanessa’s voice cuts through again, softer, though still with the ability to shatter the carefully constructed excuses she’s created for herself.

She doesn’t need the money (she does). She just couldn’t get a good shot (she could, she had plenty of chances to take a killing shot). She didn’t have enough time (she had more than a week). She would have gotten caught, with how much of a public figure Vanessa is (she’s killed many prominent people and gotten away with it).

She runs a hand through her hair, the waves catching in her fingers and tugging on her scalp the same way that her heart feels like it’s being pulled in a million different directions.

“I know I did.”

“What stopped you?” Vanessa’s question comes out in a whisper.

Brooke doesn’t need to turn around to feel her come closer, take a step forward, the heat that normally exists between them growing and burning against her shoulders and her back. Vanessa’s gentle hand on her shoulder is practically a burn, alight with flames licking and blistering at her skin.

She spins, suddenly, faces Vanessa who is much closer than she realized. Vanessa’s breath hitches in her throat as she stands her ground, refusing to take a step back.

Brooke stares, really stares. Notices the way Vanessa’s head is tilted up towards her, the defiant set of her jaw. Sees the embers glowing behind Vanessa’s eyes that light her up from the inside.

“I know you feel it too. I feel you holding back.”

The words make Brooke’s eyes flutter closed, make her breaths shallower. She thinks of the dreams she’s had of Vanessa where it’s been easy, too easy, to take her to bed and overwhelm her senses in a way that makes her scream. Having her in front of her, though, pulls her back, makes her hesitant, tentative, in a way that she never expected.

Vanessa intertwines their fingers. Index, then middle, then the rest. Two cast iron gears forged apart that slot together perfectly, as if they were always meant to fit.

“Vanessa…” The growl is soft, low in her throat.

“Don’t hold back anymore, Brooke.”

She can’t. Not when Vanessa stretches up on her tiptoes, her face coming closer, closer. Vanessa’s lips brush against hers and the resulting tendrils of lightning are enough to illuminate the room. Vanessa pauses there, waits. Asking Brooke a question that she doesn’t need to use words to communicate.

Brooke answers it. A hand in Vanessa’s curls at the nape of her neck, tilting her head up. A moan that she can’t hold in any longer when Vanessa bites at her lip, hands tugging on her sweater to bring her closer. The thud of Vanessa’s back as it hits the wall when Brooke pushes her up against it. The scrawled notes that Brooke had so meticulously pinned up fluttering down to the ground around them that neither of them pay any mind to.

Brooke’s lips move to her neck, kisses that tug at the skin and make Vanessa gasp into her shoulder. Vanessa’s hands fist uselessly in her hair, her grip tightening when Brooke nips at the juncture of her neck and collarbone.

“Too warm.” The words leave Vanessa’s mouth between ragged breaths. Brooke pulls back, sees her flushed face that is most certainly mirroring her own. Vanessa’s hands play with the hem of her sweater, fingers inching it up and splaying along her sides, dragging on her ribs. Brooke pulls it over her own head then tugs off Vanessa’s in turn, the fabric barely slipping from the grasp of her fingers before Vanessa is pulling her face back down to meet hers.

The kisses are deeper, Vanessa’s mouth open and willing and it’s too much for Brooke; each one of her senses is about to short circuit, ready to take her down at any second in sparks that turn into flames. Brooke brings her hands up to cradle Vanessa’s face and Vanessa leans into her touch, soft and melting in her hands that makes Brooke never want to let her go.

Brooke’s intake of breath is sharp when they break the kiss, her lungs so desperately clawing for oxygen that she’s not sure will be of any help. Vanessa’s eyes are unfocused when she stares up at her, chest rising in uneven patterns and a tremble in her shoulders that matches the erratic beating of Brooke’s heart.

“I can’t stop thinking about this. About you. I-” Vanessa’s words are short, stilted, cut off as she reaches up to kiss Brooke again.

“Fuck.” Brooke breathes it in a gasp before covering her lips with her own once more, as if stopping means that Vanessa will disappear; they’ll disappear. That this will end up being one of the dreams that jerks her awake in bed all alone, with a heat between her legs that she can’t take care of herself no matter how hard she tries.

The smell of Vanessa’s shampoo, the way she’s burning up under Brooke’s touch, the way her hands are everywhere, palming at her breasts and gripping at her sides, remind Brooke that she’s really here.

Brooke’s hand trails along her waistband and Vanessa whimpers, her hips lifting from the wall and it’s too much, she needs to hear that sound again. Never wants to stop hearing it. She tugs on Vanessa’s leggings and helps her shimmy out of them, kicking them to the side. Brooke’s fingers tease along the waistband of her underwear, dancing along the outside and dropping lower and fuck, Vanessa’s already so wet for her through the fabric as she tries to gain any semblance of friction against her hand.

Brooke drops open-mouthed kisses onto her neck, then shoulder blades, then sternum as her fingers trace delicate patterns, trying to hold back as much as she’s able to until Vanessa is begging for it underneath her, but-

“C’mere.”

Brooke is too tall at their current angle, she’s bending down as much as she can but it’s not enough. She straightens up, a hand pulling Vanessa into the adjoining kitchen, spinning to face her. She crouches, grabs underneath Vanessa’s thighs to lift her up and onto the kitchen counter.

Vanessa lets out a noise at the coolness of the countertop against her bare skin, one that gives way to a moan when Brooke pushes her legs apart and steps in between them, trailing her hands up her inner thighs.

She feels more in control now, less like she’s going to explode at any given moment, having Vanessa in front of her like this and pliable under her hands. They’re at eye level now, making it almost too easy for Brooke to reach up and brush Vanessa’s bottom lip with her thumb and watch her eyes flutter shut. Brooke’s other hand climbs Vanessa’s thigh and traces along the edge of her underwear, still teasing and drawing out the inevitable noises that fall from her lips.

Vanessa drops her forehead onto Brooke’s shoulder when she finally, finally pushes her underwear to the side and feels the wetness that’s been soaking through the fabric. Brooke’s fingers tease at her entrance while her thumb brushes against her clit, light enough that she’s not sure if it actually does until she hears Vanessa let out a whimper against her neck.

“Please, I need-”

Vanessa’s voice is cut off in a gasp when Brooke pushes two fingers into her, feels her walls clench around them. Brooke curls them up slightly, places a kiss on Vanessa’s jaw before whispering into her ear.

“What is it, baby?”

Slender arms wrap around her as she starts to pump her fingers. Vanessa buries her face in Brooke’s neck but it does nothing to stifle the noises that spill from her mouth and make Brooke squeeze her own thighs together.

“You need to tell me what you want.”

“Harder.”

Brooke speeds up in response, her thumb moving in light circles around her clit in tandem with the curling of her fingers.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about you? Dreamt about you falling apart like this?” The words come out soft, low. She can feel Vanessa shudder against her, arms tightening around her neck.

She twists her wrist slightly and the angle makes Vanessa’s hips buck against her, meet her in turn, curse words falling from her lips. Brooke speeds up even more as the burn in her forearm grows but she’s not stopping, not now when Vanessa is gasping her name like it’s a prayer.

Brooke punctuates the movements of her fingers with her lips on Vanessa’s neck, jaw, the lobe of her ear, wherever she can reach in their current position. She nips and teases at the skin, soothing the spots that she knows will blossom in reds and purples the next day with her tongue. Brooke can feel Vanessa tightening around her fingers, the sensations everywhere too much, too strong, as her orgasm rolls over her in waves. Vanessa buries her face in Brooke’s shoulder to muffle her scream.

Brooke fucks her through it until Vanessa’s gasps even out, then stills the motion of her fingers, placing a kiss against Vanessa’s flushed temple. Brooke’s fingers gently brush against Vanessa’s clit when she pulls them back, hypersensitivity making her whine and shudder against her.

Vanessa’s lips part as Brooke lifts her fingers towards her mouth, sucks on them until they’re clean, her tongue darting out when Brooke pulls them back. Brooke’s eyes travel over her with a hunger she can’t restrain, noticing the way that Vanessa’s chest continues to heave and how her eyes are still blown with lust.

“Good girl.”

She tilts Vanessa’s face up to hers with two fingers underneath her chin, the resulting kiss slow and languid. Her shoulder aches, the wound that had begun to heal from the graze she sustained a day previously starting to throb. It feels like it’s been torn open again underneath the layers of bandages as the adrenaline of having Vanessa fall apart beneath her begins to subside. She doesn’t care.

Vanessa pulls back, breaking the kiss, and pushes on Brooke’s uninjured shoulder so that she takes a step backward. Brooke watches as Vanessa eases herself off of the counter, still shaky on her legs as she stands to face her, look up at her. Her hands come up to ghost against Vanessa’s sides but she’s stopped, Vanessa’s hands instead grabbing both of hers as she takes a step backwards, then another. Vanessa tugs her towards the master bedroom that Brooke insisted that she take when they had first arrived, much to her protests.

“Let me take care of you. Please.”

Well. Who is she to deny that request?

Brooke leans back against the headboard, lets Vanessa straddle her and unhook the bra that she’s somehow still wearing. Lets her kiss down her chest and her ribs and nip at her hipbones and the crook of her thigh. Brooke is more than happy to oblige when Vanessa tugs on one of her legs to get her to shuffle down, to lie down properly and rest her head on the pillows. She slides off Brooke’s underwear with a practicedease, as if she’s done it a million times before.

The kisses that Vanessa places up the inside of her thigh are electric currents, teasing her only just enough before pulling back. Vanessa looks up, grins at her when she lets out a grunt in frustration.

“You all good?”

Brooke huffs. “You know exactly what you’re doing, you fucking tease.” It’s too much and not enough, she wants to just move Vanessa to where she wants her-

Her thought process cuts off when Vanessa finally, finally brings her kisses between her thighs, her tongue slowly swiping up and swirling around her clit. Brooke can’t stop herself from tugging on the locks of Vanessa’s hair that her hands have raked through and gotten hold of, her grip tight.

The resulting moan from Vanessa against her center is practically filthy. Brooke tugs again, experimentally, feels how Vanessa’s grip on her thighs tightens in response.

Interesting.

Vanessa doesn’t give her time to reflect on the discovery before resuming her motions, lapping and then sucking and she’s so close. Vanessa teases two fingers at her entrance, facing no resistance when she pushes them in, curls them up. Brooke’s thighs have a vice grip on Vanessa’s head but she can’t pull them apart, doesn’t want to, not when Vanessa is doing that.

Her hands rake through Vanessa’s hair, tug harder when Vanessa increases her pace, matching the trembling of her own body. It’s warm, too warm, she’s burning and burning but she doesn’t care, not when the explosion feels this exquisite.

She comes with Vanessa’s name on her lips, interspersed between incoherent utterances because fuck, she’s had sex but it’s never been like this, never made her truly let go.

Brooke tugs Vanessa back up, tastes herself on her mouth when she kisses her. She brushes the damp curls away from Vanessa’s face as she leans over Brooke.

“Beautiful.”

Vanessa’s lip curls up at the statement that Brooke can’t hold back. “Didn’t know all it took to make you soft was some time in the sheets.”

“Shut up.” There’s no malice in it, only a smirk back.

She’s not lying, though. The softness of Vanessa’s skin as Brooke’s fingers traceup her arm. The waves that fall in front of Vanessa’s face, mussed and messy yet intoxicating in the way that the smell of her shampoo overpowers everything else. The brightness in Vanessa’s eyes, the way she looked at her with want and need but now wears a face of…fondness? She can’t tell, but she knows enough to tell that the sex is something Vanessa will want to repeat too.

Vanessa leans into Brooke’s touch when her hand shifts to cup her face, before rolling off of her and tucking herself into her side. She lifts a hand to trace patterns across Brooke’s ribs, her touch light and following the rise and fall of Brooke’s chest.

Brooke should be afraid at how natural it feels to wrap an arm around Vanessa and pull her close. How the usual antsy feeling that bubbles in her chest when a girl stays in her bed for too long is now nowhere to be found. How instead, she’s quite content where she is, the soft smile that teases on her lips growing when she can feel Vanessa’s breathing against her get deeper. How the tracing motions of Vanessa’s fingers come to a stop, her hand going slack against Brooke’s ribs.

She’s not grasping at straws anymore for what her next move will be, how she’s going to get out of the situation in one piece with her money. She doesn’t care anymore.

She’s going to protect Vanessa with her damn life a million more times if she has to.

[fallen-gravity]

Protection

Fandom: Moana

Category: Gen

Relationship: Moana & Maui

Word Count: 3,080

Summary: Sometimes, words just...aren’t enough. Sure, they’re really great and really helpful if they’re well inteded and coming from the right person- but sometimes? Sometimes you just want to be held.

Notes: 

Okay, look. Moana loves being held and touched and hugged. I will stand by this headcanon until either the day I die or the day the Moana team themselves denies it as canon. Whichever comes last.

Three times Moana needs comfort from someone else in the movie, and all three times she goes about recieving comfort through touch. It’s undeniable. The first time, when she’s talking with her mother, Sina just carefully brushes her hair out of her face for her. The second, during Tala’s lines of I Am Moana, Tala holds Moana’s cheek in her hands. And lastly, and most importantly, When she and Maui are saying goodbye she launches herself into his arms and hugs him. It’s unavoidable fact.

Also, fun fact! This story was originally supposed to be in Moana’s perspective, but now that I’ve gone through and written it I realized it works just as well in Maui’s ;)

Enjoy!

If there’s one thing Maui’s learned about Motunui since his arrival, it’s that after the stars come out, everything just seems to come to a halt. There’s not a single hint of life evident in Moana’s village after everyone turns in, and nobody comes out until the sun rises the next morning.

It’s almost impressive. During the day, nobody seems to stop moving. Everyone always seems to have something to do, and everyone keeps at what they’re doing until they turn in for the night. Rise with the sun and sleep with the moon. He’s almost surprised Moana’s one of them at all, because when they’re out on the water together or on those occasional nights where they’d stargaze down by the shore, she seems like she never sleeps. Not once. As a matter of fact he’s sure he’s fallen asleep on her when they’re stargazing more times than she’s fallen asleep on him, and he doesn’t even need sleep.

Speaking of which, that would probably explain why he’s so bored right now. It’s the middle of the night, and the moon high above his head shows no sign of setting any time soon. He’s sitting in his fale just kind of staring out the window waiting for either the sun or for Moana to rise. Whichever comes first, honestly.

He doesn’t even really need a fale. Because he technically doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t really need somewhere to go at night. Even if he wanted somewhere to go, he could just as easily turn himself hawk and find refuge in a tall tree in the forest than he could come in here. But when he first arrived, it had been Moana herself who offered to construct him one. Think of it as a place to come to if he ever needed it, she had said. That, in addition to the fact that Moana’s typically a really hard person to say no to got him to where he is now.

Normally, on nights like these when he doesn’t feel like bothering to fall asleep, he would wander the island. Sometimes he’d walk, scavenging through her village or up and down the shoreline looking for something to do. Sometimes he’d turn hawk and simply circle the village from the air, but he usually only does that on the clearest, warmest of nights when he’s sure he’d be able to see the entire village from the sky. On rare occasions he’d even turn lizard and scavenge through the forests.

Not tonight, though. Tonight it’s kind of chilly, and no matter what form he could take to wander it wouldn’t be worth the ridiculously cold breeze passing over Motunui right now. So instead, he’s settling for staying tucked away inside the warmth of his fale with a newfound appreciation for its existence just kind of waiting for something interesting to happen. He could go to sleep, he supposes, but he tried that last night and the night before to no avail, so he’s sort of resorted to hold off on sleeping until he actually feels tired. If he can actually get tired at all, that is.

He kind of shrugs to himself, and settles himself against the back wall of his fale, staring out at the doorway. He really should find something better to do, because he knows that realistically it’s still gonna be a few hours before he sees another soul out there, but he supposes that’s also technically his fault for not really filling his fale with many things to entertain himself with.

He goes to make a mental note to remind himself to do that in the morning, but a small ruffling sound from somewhere outside startles him from his thoughts. He blinks, just to be sure that it’s really still the middle of the night and that he hadn’t fallen asleep without realizing it, and when he’s absolutely certain that it is still in fact still dark out, he stands. He walks to the doorway of his fale and half-leans on it as he looks around for the source of the noise.

It’s not long before he catches the small figure of another person wandering outside and turning their head around like they’re looking for something. The way the moonlight catches on the person confirms that yes, this person’s definitely a girl, and the way her hair just spills out in curls confirms that-

Wait a minute.

Maui squints towards the figure. “Moana?” He asks, and the girl kind of freezes in place for half a second, startled by the name. But then she squints in his direction, mirroring his actions from only seconds before, and takes a few unsure steps toward him.

“Oh, Maui. Hi” Moana mumbles...unhappily? Maui gives himself a second to look her over. Yep, there’s definitely something wrong with her, he can tell even in the poorly-lit moonlight. Her shoulders are kinda slouched over, she’s not standing as straight and proudly as she usually is, and her big brown eyes that are already barely holding his gaze almost look like they’re shining a bit. But Maui can tell that it’s not the moonlight or any sort of happiness to see him that’s causing it.

“I’m glad I caught you, actually” Moana says, even though she doesn’t look glad. She takes a few more unsure steps toward him. “Can we talk?” She asks, awkwardly rubbing at her arms, dropping her gaze towards the ground. “I was going to go ask my parents, but I don’t want to bother them when they’re sleeping.” She mumbles, and pauses in her thought as another comes to her. “Did I wake you up?” She asks, and Maui frowns.

“Demigod. I don’t need sleep”

“Right, right” Moana waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Sorry” she apologizes, and Maui’s frown deepens, because that’s not really something she should be apologizing for.

“Anyway,” Moana says, clearly trying to pull the conversation back on her. “Can we talk?” She repeats, and gestures vaguely with her head towards his fale door. “Can I come in?” She mumbles, and Maui sighs quietly.

He hates it when Moana gets like this. When Moana gets all sad and quiet and completely unlike her. He really does. Because he wants to help her, wants to be able to comfort her and assure her she’s going to be okay, because he knows she is, but he’s really bad at comforting people. Comforting words almost never come to him when he needs them, and Moana’s the absolute last person he’d ever want to hurt by mistake when all he’s trying to do is make her feel better. But at the same time, he can’t stand the sight of that sadness showing in her entire body. It’s uncomfortable and he doesn’t like it at all.

“Sure” Maui nods, and steps inside to make room for her. Moana slinks inside, and once she apparently decides she’s far enough in she slides to the ground in a sitting position. Maui frowns, and moves to plant himself in front of her.

“Are you...okay?” He offers, and when Moana finally meets his gaze that deep sadness in her eyes lets him know he already made a mistake.

“Not really” She mumbles, and begins to rub at her arm again. “I’ve just been thinking about some things recently and it’s making it really hard to sleep, you know?” She asks, and waves a hand as if to tell him it’s not a question he’s meant to answer. “I don’t know” she mutters, and shifts awkwardly, unsurely bringing her arms around her legs. “I mean, I know being Chief isn’t something I should be worrying about” she drops her head to her knees, making her words almost inaudible. “But the first island we come across on our first voyage, and already the Chief’s son is trying to convince me I’m not good enough or something” She mutters, and starts shifting her position uncomfortably again, and she’s kind of staring at him like there’s something she isn’t telling him. “I mean, I know that’s not true, but it’s hard not to think about what he said. It was really hurtful” She finishes, and a bit of anger hardens his gaze inadvertently at the thought that anyone would think that Moana’s not good enough. To be Chief, as a person in general, it doesn’t matter. Moana’s the best person there is and if this Chief’s son, whoever this guy thinks he is, thinks anything less of her, than that’s his problem, and not one in the least he should be projecting onto her.

“Moana, that’s not-” Maui starts, and pauses to sigh. “That’s not true, okay? I don’t want you to think that way. I don’t know who this guy is, and yes, I want his name, because I don’t want someone going around trying to convince you you’re something you’re not, because, you- you’re a really good person, Moana, and I’m sure you’re a really good Chief- even though I don’t really know what being Chief is like-” He pauses to shake his head. “But I’m sure you’re still really good at it anyway, because, y’know, you’re ‘Moana of Motunui’ and all that, and-and it’s just not right that someone would say you aren’t, even if they’re kind of a Chief too, but that doesn’t technically mean that they’re-”

He’s suddenly cut off by something knocking the air out of lungs by trying to squeeze him to death, and when Maui spares a glance downward he sees that Moana’s wrapped her arms around his chest in a tight hug.

“Maui?” she mutters, and not a single trace of her sadness seems to have left her voice.

“Yeah?”

“You’re rambling” Moana mumbles, and without warning she shifts herself closer to him and wraps more of her arms around him. “Do you think we could maybe just…” She pauses, like she’s trying to figure out how to ask her question. “Hug for a little bit?” She asks, and smiles up at him sadly. “You don’t need to say anything else. It’ll make me feel a lot better”

“Oh” Maui blurts out loud, because hugging actually would be a lot easier than sitting here trying to come up with some sort of comforting or motivational speech for her. “Okay, sure” he shrugs, and the moment he wraps his arms around her to reciprocate her hug Moana grips onto his sides and tightens her hold on him. And Maui almost thought she’d been kidding, and was only saying this to get him to stop talking, but right away he feels the tension she’d clearly been holding for too long have melt away underneath him, and ever so slightly she relaxes herself against him.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to change the fact that she’s still really upset, because when her tension melts away, the first thing that Maui notices is that she’s shaking. Frowning, he adjusts his arms around her and tugs her closer to his chest. Moana gasps really quietly at the motion, and adjusts her arms around him as well to allow herself to settle comfortably against him.

For a solid minute, neither of them move. Maui tries really hard not to focus on the fact that she’s still trembling against him, and instead tries to focus on her breathing. It’s slow and choppy, clearly that of someone who’s not doing okay, and he does his best to match his with hers. It’s not easy, because hers seems to be breaking, but eventually he manages to slow his own breathing to match in time with hers, and for whatever reason this consistency is enough to calm both of them, if only a tiny bit.

Wait. But Moana’s breathing is choppy and breaking, and it’s an entire octave higher than it normally is, almost as if she’s-

Maui bites down the urge to recoil at the thought. “Moana, are you...crying?” He asks tentatively, and she pulls her face from where she’d apparently squished it against his chest to look up at him.

“No” she claims, but her voice is definitely breaking right now, and those are definitely tears building in her eyes. He may be a little out of practice when it comes to reading emotions on other people, and Moana knows he is, but there’s no way she thinks he could possibly be that ignorant.

Maui bites down on the urge to snort incredulously. Sure. Of course she’s not crying. He’s clearly mistaken. Oh, it’s not like she’s coming to him for comfort in the middle of the night or anything. Nah, she just came by to say hello and accidentally slipped into his arms. He goes to actually say that out loud, maybe to get some sort of laugh or smile out of her, but then he glances down at her when she kicks at the ground to help herself settle into him more comfortably and quickly finds that he can’t.

Moana’s completely curled up against him, legs squished together and turned off to one side. Her arms are barely reaching halfway around his sides, but she’s gripping onto him like a lifeline. She’s leaning her head against his chest, right over Mini Moana, and her curly hair is spilling messily against his chest and over her shoulders. Her large brown eyes only appear larger at the sight of tears pooling in them. He realizes abruptly that only one of his arms is enough to fit around her entire frame. He’s just sparing a glance down at her, he’s not even moving his head, and he can already see her in her entirety.

He’s never really realized how small she is before.

Sure, by mortal standards, compared to others in her village, she’s pretty average sized. She’s a little short compared to the adults, but that’s not really surprising. He already knew she was short, because she has to look up at him if she wants to meet his gaze if they’re both standing.

But...he never really thought about it more than that. He never really thought about how...how much bigger he is compared to her. About how easily he could cradle her in his arms if he wanted to.

Not just that, either. Now that he really thinks about it...a year hasn’t even passed since they restored the Heart together. At the most, he guesses it’s been about six months. Moana- Moana’s still young. She’s still a kid. Sixteen, sure, but he knows that’s not considered an adult age even by mortal standards. She’s so short because she’s still young and she’s still small- smaller still because she’s curling up into a ball- small enough that he could easily scoop her up into his arms and hold her without a second thought.

Just by sparing a glance down at her, just by noting that she’s significantly smaller than he is, something he really probably should already know, he finds himself suddenly overwhelmed by this feeling of...he’s not sure. Whatever the feeling is, all it’s making him want to do is pull her closer, hold her tighter, and keep her there until he’s sure she’s okay. Until she’s well and safe.

...Protectiveness?

He’s feeling protective over Moana? That’s-that’s ridiculous. He’s well aware that Moana can defend herself. He’s personally experienced what she can do with that oar of hers and he knows better than anybody that it’s best not to cross her when she’s got it in her hands. He’s fought by her side countless times, and sure- he’s definitely wanted to keep her safe in battle. He’d definitely rather take a blow for her than to watch her get hurt. But he knows that she doesn’t really need his help, that she could defend herself just as easily if he weren’t fighting beside her at all.

But this- this type of protectiveness- this gentle wanting to cradle her and wipe her tears away and make sure not to let go of her until she’s well and happy again-This is different and Maui’s not sure he’s wanted to stand by someone and protect them like this...ever, as a matter of fact.

And it’s...a little awkward, if Maui’s going to be completely honest. It’s such an open and soft and vulnerable feeling and not something he’s used to being.

But...this is Moana. Moana’s the least judgy and most empathetic person he’s ever met in his entire life. She’s the first person he’s ever willingly told about his backstory, and she’s the first who hasn’t judged him for it. She sat down and listened and when he finished she responded back. She encouraged him and taught him that he is the only one who can make him who he is.

So sure, opening himself up and letting himself appear vulnerable isn’t something he’s used to doing. It’s not something he’s ever done, really. Because being open and vulnerable can get you judged and hurt if you’re not careful.

But Moana- Moana would never judge him. Moana would never hurt him. And most importantly- she kind of needs him right now. She needs him, and that thought alone only makes him want to hold her even tighter.

So he throws his doubt to the wind and more or less just kind of lets his protective instincts take over. He shifts his arms away from around her back and moves them to her shoulders. As gently as he possibly can, he scoops her up and holds her to his shoulder. Immediately, Moana sniffles loudly, but after a brief moment she comfortably rests her head over his shoulder and kind of leans into his hair. She reaches her arms up to instead wrap them around his neck, and it’s almost shocking how quickly her trembling seems to subside at being able to hold him just as easily as he is her.

Now that his face is out of her line of sight, he rolls his eyes at her in fond exasperation and folds his arms around her even more. And even if he can’t see her face either, he feels like he can almost see her smile as she tightens her hold on him at his gesture.

“How are you feeling?” He tries for sarcasm and teasing, he really does, but oversteps right into fond territory. “Any better?” He asks, and she huffs out a small but genuine laugh as she adjusts her head to bury it into the crook of his neck.

“I do now”

[nebris]

The Individual and The Hive

“Liberal Humanism had once been a vital force and had changed human affairs for the better. But it inevitably fell victim to the Cult of The Individual and then fractured into ideological factionalism, individual narcissism and intellectual decadence. Its absolute rejection of Hierarchy doomed it to impotence.” a quote from “Apéritif á La Tour Rouge”, a Sisterhood short story.   The Cult of The Individual is clearly the predominant theme of the Modern Era. And it is a Lie. Here is the ineffable Adam Curtis speaking upon it in a UK Guardian article: "The way power works in the world is: they tell you stories that make sense of the world. That’s what America did after the Second World War. It told you wonderful dreamlike stories about the world … And at that same time, you were encouraged to rise up and 'become an individual’, which also made the whole idea of America attractive to the rest of the world. But then this very individualism began to corrode it. The uncertainties began in people’s minds. Uncertainty about 'what is the point of being an individual?’ The politics of our time are deeply embedded in this idea of individualism, which is far wider than Westminster [the British seat of government], consumerism or anything like that. It’s how you feel. People think, 'Oh, if it’s within me it must be true.’ But it’s not the be-all and end-all. It’s not an absolute. It’s a way of feeling and thinking which is a product of a particular time and power. The notion that you only achieve your true self if your desires, your dreams, are satisfied … It’s a political idea. That’s the central dynamic of our life.” And this is a more somber comment by a Susan W. in Morris Berman’s blog: “So much of our lives in America are compartmentalized it does result in loneliness. The way our communities are set up isolate us and make social interaction stilted. There’s not much spontaneity and people don’t know how to break this cycle and with 24 hour/day TV, the internet, long commutes and loss of real public space the soul continues to be drained out of Americans. It takes effort to see friends and build a social network that is comprised of real flesh-and-blood people rather than “profiles.” Both Huxley and Orwell recognized this process of dehumanizing people even though they saw the causes differently.” The Cult of The Individual is used by The Powers That Be to utterly dis-empower The Individual and it is my depressing opinion that most in The West, especially my fellow Americans, shall never escape that trap. A chap who calls himself Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri - a nom-de-blog I expect - speaks of this in his essay The Parable of The Hive, to wit: “The hive decides who gets to mate with whom and under what circumstances. The hive decides who gets the best food, the choicest real estate, and the cushiest jobs. The hive decides how you live and how you die. The hive decides what you eat for breakfast… The hive is an invasive species composed entirely of information, of narrative, that exists only for its own benefit, that nurtures individuals — or the opposite — in proportion to how the individual benefits the hive. It is in the best interests of the hive to teach you sacrifice. To make you accept it completely. The hive, by means of sacrifice and pooling resources, can survive when individuals would fare poorly. Individuals die, but society is preserved… It has predators and parasites. It has fake members that are immune to the narrative, that masquerade as valuable, favored cogs, that pervert the rudimentary defenses to foil and destroy the drones that would root them out. They insinuate themselves into the supply chains to bleed off resources for personal hoards, for prime real estate, for breeding privileges. They pervert the narrative itself to set themselves up as gods. What are the choices here? 1. To ensure survival as much as possible by making yourself invaluable to the hive, but, in the end, putting your fate in the hands of the hive and its narrative. 2. To reject the narrative entirely and live outside of the hive to the greatest extent possible, live and let live, but outside of the hive’s protections and occasionally running afoul of the hive’s defenses. 3. To become a predator/parasite, competing with other parasites for your share of hoarded resources and privileges by your own attempts to co-opt a portion of the narrative. 4. Erect a counter-narrative and create a hive that competes with or even preys upon the old hive, or perhaps establishes a symbiotic relationship with it via an exchange of resources or favors. Once you are aware of the hive, and its narrative, and the predators and parasites that prey on it, your choices are very limited. Keep your head down, try to escape, put up a fight, or autolysis. What will you choose?” What most in The West choose, especially my fellow Americans, is to operate in a gray zone between the first and second choices, thinking/believing that they are in a form of the second paradigm - but utterly in Denial that they are part of The Hive aka the myth of “Rugged Individualism” - while functionally operating fully in the first paradigm. That is the Tea Party mentality in a nutshell. Hipsters on the other hand are more aware of this, but blow it off with Irony. The shrinking and increasingly desperate Middle Classes tend to go for the first paradigm full bore, though still remaining largely in Denial about how thoroughly assimilated they actually are. Wall Street, the New Rich, et al have taken the third paradigm - the 'predator/parasite gods’ - to its insane extreme and will likely be the death of The Hive because of that. But such is inherent to the 'narrative’ of The Individual, its unavoidable Poison Pill, “Screw you, Jack; I got mine.” So then, what is the point of being an 'individual’? What Purpose does your life have beyond 'satisfaction of desires’, many of which are not even really your own? These questions invariably bring us to The Sisterhood and where it stands in all of this. Obviously we pick Door #4, “Erect a counter-narrative and create a hive that competes with or even preys upon the old hive, or perhaps establishes a symbiotic relationship with it via an exchange of resources or favors,” though we shall reverse the order by initially “establishing symbiotic relationship with it via an exchange of resources or favors,” and then subsuming the 'Old Hive’ entirely. “The central strategy here is The Viral Meme, the Idea that is so compelling and dynamic that that is spreads like wildfire. That Idea exists; a entirely new and modern form of Matriarchy. Our task is to create that Idea as a Practical Reality, a Practical Reality that becomes the microcosm of this new society, a Practical Reality that is vital, replicable, adaptable, and then plant it in the societies that presently exist. In many places, it shall flourish and expand. In some places, it will struggle and even be extinguished. But if we do our work effectively and remain true to both the practical goals and the Spiritual vision of this New Matriarchy, we will grow into and absorb even the most hostile social orders.” from The Temple’s Mission Statement. In the meantime we must operate in the third paradigm until we are stronger, as “a predator/ parasite, competing with other parasites for your share of hoarded resources and privileges by your own attempts to co-opt a portion of the narrative.” I understand that all this is a bitter pill to swallow. Some of you can likely hear Number Six shouting, “I’m not a number, etc,” in your minds. But that is a delusion at this point. Just pull out your wallet or purse. You are several types of number and by yourself you are powerless. Yes, Worst Fear confirmed. I am offering you a way to change this, my Sisters. It is a radical and even dangerous path and may be even a fool’s errand. But I truly believe that, for the many reasons elaborated upon in Liber Sorores, it is the only viable path out of the present death spiral, because it’s fairly clear the 'Old Hive’ is dying and all the other solutions are either warmed-over versions of the Old Hive’s socioeconomic or some type of neo-feudal reaction, various primitivist 'back to the land’ constructs that would require the extinction of hundreds of millions of humans in order to work. For decades now how many tens of millions of you, my Sisters, have woken up every day to a job you hate? To a life you hate? To feeling trapped and without Purpose? Even if one has the basic necessities of life, lack of Purpose can be Soul killing, a day to day void that slowly but steadily drains the life out of you. And now even the 'basic necessities’ are becoming hard to come by. Simple survival has become 'purpose’. But that is an animal’s life. If you have gotten to this far, you have likely read Liber Sorores in its entirety. You now know The Path Invoked, though you may not yet truly grasp it. To do so means to accept some unpleasant truths about ourselves. As a highly social Predator Species, we are biologically hard wired for Dominance, Submission and Hierarchy. Denial of that state of being is one of the worst and most hypocritical forms of Bourgeois Delusionalism, which is ever about making things Safe and Nice. Of course, being Humans, we make that paradigm very complex and sophisticated and far more subtle than it is in untrammeled Nature. We hide it in Ritual and Lies so that it becomes 'palatable’ to the Masses. But it is there if one looks close and honestly enough at day to day human interaction. Most urban dwellers never look each other in the eye; such is an implicit challenge. I personally have 'taken control’ of many interactions via this simple behavior and without having to establish overt Dominance. Just making steady eye contact often tells the other that I am Strong and Confident, aka Steady and Trustworthy. I have found this to be true even when my Social Status was 'less’ than the person I was interacting with. I quite successfully navigated my way through two years of homelessness doing so. And pointing out that I am a large white male who is attractive, intelligent and articulate merely underscores the power of the paradigm, though many of the techniques I used – such as NLP – are not limited to individuals of that class. But while I did this largely 'on my own’, I never did it as a pure Individual. Early on I became a member of a well respected homeless support organization, always cultivated persons of importance within The System and consistently acknowledged that I knew I was operating within said System, covertly with The Dull and overtly with The Aware. I was always part of a Group. As I said, human Hierarchy is complex, subtle and sophisticated. But have no doubt that it defines us. I have noted that some of loudest denials of this paradigm come from tenured academics – individuals of Authority and Power in a clearly defined Hierarchy – which I’d say sums up our basic dilemma rather neatly. And both ends of the cultural and political spectrum are guilty of this deception, though the Left is rather more self deluded in this regard. The Right tends to simply lie about it, which in turn yields the field, at worst, to Fascist Domination and, at best, making the social order prisoner of Modern Corporate Marketing Culture aka The Hologram, which is all about Safe and Nice. This attitude has been enshrined in The Cult of The Individual, which in turn renders those who internalize said construct ultimately powerless against any Group which seeks Control. The Hive will always defeat The Individual. Most humans will seek Safety and Comfort long before they seek Awareness. That is hard wired as a survival mechanism. Only an elite few have the Willingness and the Courage to become Awake. We are a social species. Hierarchy is in our nature. And Leaders are required. Refusal to accept that will lead only to frustration and failure. If you believe nothing else I tell you, believe that. The Cult of The Individual has crippled us as individuals, leaving us prey to the purposeless greed of The Corporate State. Only a positive overarching Goal for the entire Species can once again create the room for individuals to flourish because such a Goal allows each individual to contribute that which they are best at and are happiest with by removing uncertainly and therefore removing Fear. By knowing the Greater Purpose, each individual knows how and what they can contribute, whether that be in Engineering or in Art or even just sweeping up. All those things have Value. In return, the Social Order gives all its members that which they need to live and the ability to find where they can best be of Service, which is the Highest Good for all. It is only in this manner that The Hive may Serve The Individual as The Individual Serves The Hive and in that both may prosper. And only a Hive of Sisters is capable of doing so. 

Liber Sorores: Part Seven – “Summation” [unfinished]